Do-Over
by aboxofmuses
Summary: /gore warning maybe; fluff?; other things. aLLA THE THINGS. When a Writer appears in Gravity Falls and meets Bill Cipher, what will they do to get home?...or could they possibly stay?


**[Disclaimer: Gravity Falls does not belong to me. This is kind of based off a twitter RP that's been going on for quite a few months now, and it's interesting, so I thought I'd make a fanfic off of it starting over with a different person (name and gender haven't been decided yet) who might have the same adventure, might not. I like gore, so here's the warning. It might come in later in the story. Or earlier. Who knows. Anyway, thanks for reading!]**

Who the hell knew I'd end up here? Not here as in standing in the middle of the evergreen forest surrounding Gravity Falls, gawking at the huge fungi and the bioluminescent moss clinging to the rough reddish brown bark of the trees. No—I mean, how did I get on this side of the Wall in the first place? You're supposed to watch the show, not be a part of it. Those memories that I _do_ have of that world are already fading. I remember faces, houses and pets, but not names. Not how or if I was related to them. I shiver, taking a quick glance around again. This place gives me the creeps, and it's not just the rustling in the bushes I hear every few minutes, but the eyes I can feel on me. Watching my every movement, perhaps waiting for the right time to catch and drag me away like some kind of fresh kill. And who says I wouldn't be? I know there are some dangerous things around these woods that humans such as myself should never lay eyes on. ..I should get moving. I really should.

Brushing past the thick, waist high sword ferns, I eventually make my way out onto a dirt road rutted with tire tracks from past traffic wearing it down. I decide to turn right, and follow the road. I hope this isn't some logging road, and that someone will eventually drive down it and see me. Maybe even give me a ride. I chew my lip, a habit, and look up at the warm sunlight filtering through the canopy above. The trees are so tall here that I can't see the very tops, and I grin just a little, thinking of how old they must be. I look down at my hiking boots, my grey skinny jeans tucked into them, the hem of my black shirt fluttering over the top of the waist in the slight breeze. At this rate I might never get home, and this road never seems to end. Yet, despite that, I come to a fork in the road, an old painted wooden sign reading "Mystery Shack, this way!" on the right, and a newer, well kempt plastic sign on the left that says: "Tent of Telepathy" on it, with an arrow pointing in the appropriate direction. Which sign should I choose? By now, I'm not sure I have ever heard of either of these places, even though they do sound vaguely familiar. And the feeling of being watched is back, making the small hairs on the back of my neck rise, goosebumps covering my arms. I want to turn around; confront what's bugging me, but a voice in the back of my mind is screaming at me to just choose, pick your fate, and don't worry about the presence behind you. Still I hesitate, why do I need to pick one? What's the big deal about doing it anyways? Will it affect me later? Augh, too many questions.

Suddenly, the air shimmers in front of me, the colors bleeding out from it, becoming a colorless greyscape. I gasp and step back, startled, just in time to feel an unnaturally warm arm loop itself around my shoulders. Looking over, I see that it's akin to those drawn on stick figures. It pulls me over to a cyclopean, triangular yellow monstrosity with a comical little bowtie underneath its single eye, and a too-tall top hat bobbing lazily in the air about an inch above its top vertice. Taking in a breath, about to scream, I find that I can't; my lips are sealed shut, almost like they've been zipped closed, or glued. I panic and claw at them, trying to get them open, but a high nasally voice cuts through my distressed whimpers.

"Hiya, doll! I thought I'd just stop the screaming before it started, so I made a little…_adjustment._" His eye seems to leer at me as his grip gets tighter, causing me to squirm. "I wanted to make sure you held up your end of the deal we made," Examining his nonexistent nails, a few images flash across his surface briefly—vague, blurry images of me shaking his flame engulfed hand. "But," the images abruptly vanish, "you've been through some traumatizing stuff lately, so I thought I'd be the nice guy and let's say..close a few doors."

I blink, taking the information in. What'd he mean by _that_?


End file.
